The Wily Odysseus
by Rachel Martin
Summary: "All outcomes are acceptable." After Liberty Island, a machiavellian and possibly insane Scott solves his Logan problem for once and for all. X1, with many references to the later movies. There's a lot of worldbuilding in this story, a lot of details about how the school operates, how the team operates, and how residents of the mansion interact.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Wily Odysseus  
 **Author:** Rachel_Martin64  
 **Pairings:** Jean Grey/Scott Summers; Jean Grey/Logan; Rogue/Scott Summers; Logan/Rogue; Ororo Munroe & Scott Summers; Emma Frost/Warren Worthington III; Emma Frost & Scott Summers; Bobby Drake & Scott Summers  
 **Characters:** Scott Summers, Logan, Jean Grey, Rogue, Ororo Munroe, Warren Worthington III, Bobby Drake, Charles Xavier, Emma Frost, Jean Grey as the Phoenix  
 **Overall Rating:** Mature. An adult version is at "Archive Of Our Own"  
 **This story is not finished.**  
 **Summary:** All outcomes are acceptable. After Liberty Island, a machiavellian and possibly insane Scott solves his Logan problem for once and for all.

This is X1, and immediately after X1, with many references to the later movies. There's a lot of worldbuilding in this story - how the school operates, how the team operates, how the residents of the mansion interact with each other.

 **Chapter 1**

 _Wars spring from unseen and generally insignificant causes, the first outbreak being often but an explosion of anger_ \- Thucydides

"Dammit, I knew it was a bad idea to leave the two of you in that house without adult supervision." Ororo huffed in exasperation. "The house _is_ still standing, isn't it?"

Scott interrupted. "I broke up with Jean tonight." He injected a tremor into his voice. "I asked for the ring back."

"Oh, Scott." Ororo sighed, all annoyance instantly gone out of her voice. He heard the rustling of rearranged pillows and blankets. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised, but I wish you'd waited till I was home to pull the plug. I hate for you to be alone at a time like this."

"Sorry to wake you up."

"Don't be sorry. Will you be all right? You know Charles and I don't get back till tomorrow. This useless conference. Whose idea was this?"

 _Why, mine._ "I'll be fine."

"I know this is where I'm supposed to say how sorry I am, but I'm not. You've been engaged for six years. That's five years too many. You should have ended this a long time ago, sweetie."

"I know. I've been such an idiot. I've wasted the best years of my life."

"No, no, no, guys don't get to say that. You're twenty-seven, you got plenty of tread on the tires. Lotsa gas in the tank. Ten years from now Heidi Klum will be birthing your tenth baby and you'll say 'Jean who?'"

Scott laughed despite himself.

"See, it's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. It's all for the best, Scott. Really. You'll see."

"Will you tell Charles for me? I'd rather not talk to him right now."

"Oh, I can understand that. Yeah, I'll tell him in the morning."

"Okay. Okay, well. Thank you."

"You're gonna get through this, babe. I promise. Now go get drunk."

Scott laughed again. "You should be a shrink. You'd be the richest shrink in the world."

"I missed my calling, didn't I. Okay, I'll see you tomorrow. Oops, I mean today. It's already today. So that means I'll see you this afternoon. Love ya."

"Love you too."

Scott disconnected the call and dropped his team phone on the desk. He got up, yawned, stretched, and reheated his coffee in the small microwave tucked into a corner of his office. He swallowed several mouthfuls before returning to his desk, picking up the encrypted satellite cell again and punching in the code for Emma Frost. He needed to speak with Warren Worthington too but knew Warren would be within arm's reach of Emma. Emma and Warren were so obviously right for each other that of course they had resisted fate for years until suddenly capitulating mere months ago. Everyone associated with the Institute was glad for them. Of course, the tabloids were gladdest of all.

Emma answered on the fifth ring, hissing into her team phone over the clamor of a party. "Godzilla had better be stomping Tokyo."

"It's not business." Scott had heard enough childish whining to know how to childishly whine. "It's just been a really bad day and I need to talk to a friend right now."

" _Scott?_ Is that _you?_ What's wrong?"

He heard a muffled male voice querying Emma; that would be Warren. "Give me a moment, I'm going into the study."

He waited. The party noise receded.

"All right, Scott, talk to me. What's going on?"

"I broke up with Jean tonight. I called off the engagement."

" _What?_ Can I put you on speakerphone? Warren's in here with me."

"Sure. He needs to know."

"Hey, Scott. What's going on?"

"I broke up with Jean tonight," Scott repeated. "I called off the engagement."

He could almost hear Warren cogitating, calculating outcomes at lightning speed. "This certainly changes the team dynamic."

"What he _means_ to say is, he's _very_ sorry to hear the _sad_ news."

"No, Warren's right. It could potentially impact the school and the team." Scott stopped the whimpering and spoke crisply. "So I want to assure you and the Board that it won't. Jean and I are both professionals and we're not going to let our personal situation negatively affect the children, or the mission. We know there are much bigger issues at stake."

"All right." Warren sounded mollified. "We'll talk more later. Emma and I are moving back to the city after Labor Day and we'll come up to the school then." Muffled voices in the background. "I have to go now. We'll talk later."

"Scott, why don't you come out to the Hamptons?" Emma's voice was clearer, closer, now that she had taken him off speakerphone. "You shouldn't be alone right now. Plenty of room in the cottage." Warren's summer home, a beachfront "cottage" on Long Island, was about the size of Buckingham Palace but boasted better amenities.

"I really appreciate the invitation, but I think I'll just stay put. Ororo prescribed alcohol."

Emma laughed. "I can introduce you to a dozen young ladies who will be more than happy to take your mind off Jean. I'm glad you've come to your senses, to be honest. I'm not trying to make you feel worse, but the Board has been watching this situation develop since May and some of the trustees were beginning to question… your response."

"Thank you for telling me. You're a good friend, Emma. I want to hear the truth. Is there anything else I should know?"

"Well, I can tell you that you're not the only one wondering why Charles is, uh, sponsoring, Logan. The trustees are confused as well." Unfortunately, Emma did not choose to elaborate. "Listen, darling, I know you're heartbroken about Jean and I should be offering you sympathy, but that's not really my style. I'm glad you dumped her. The trustees will probably be glad too. As long as there's no drama."

"There hasn't been and there won't be. Jean and I are professionals."

"But Logan's not. Now there's a guy who thrives on drama. Don't let him bait you, Scott. He's got everything to gain and you've got everything to lose. God knows why, but Charles is obdurate about keeping his pet Wolverine in the house. I don't know how you're going to do it, but you have to find a way to live and work with him." Emma hesitated. "Be careful, babe. I think this situation is going to get dangerous before it gets better."

"Yes. I understand. Thank you."

Scott ended the call. He drained his coffee mug, got up again and restlessly prowled his office on the ground floor of the mansion. His office, where he had been sleeping for a week.

He understood that he had never gambled for such high stakes. Ten years spent painstakingly constructing a productive adult life after a disastrous childhood, and now he could lose it all. _My home, my woman, my team, my reputation. My life._ He could lose _everything_ , not to a natural disaster or an accident or a military strike or a repressive policy originating in Washington, D.C. He could lose everything to an overgrown schoolyard bully.

Too lazy to build a life of his own, Logan intended to take a shortcut and steal Scott's life. Logan was the one contingency Scott had never anticipated, the one scenario missing from his playbook. _I'm like the dinosaurs who never saw the asteroid coming._

Charles was undermining him, Jean was betraying him, Logan was humiliating him. The three of them were transforming him into an object of ridicule and pity. Worst of all, the Xavier Foundation's trustees were losing confidence in him. Sebastian Shaw, Donald Pierce, Harry Leland and the others were impassively observing the struggle, not caring who won, ready to negotiate with the victor.

Scott walked back to his desk and awakened his laptop. He tapped the "Send" button of the prepared email. _Dear Dr. and Mrs. Grey, I regret the necessity of this note. I want to make you aware that I have ended my engagement to your daughter. Thank you for the kindness you have shown me over the years._ Scott snorted. Jean's father, an Irish expatriate who taught Irish literature and history at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, had treated him with cold civility since the day of their engagement, and Jean's mother had not been any more welcoming. On the one hand, they acknowledged that their daughter's marital prospects were severely limited. Jean was a mutant, a telepath, and telepaths were feared not only by the mundanes but by their fellow mutants. Dr. Jean Grey, M.D., Ph.D., had secrets to keep, more secrets than her parents could imagine, and realistically it was impossible for her to get involved with the bachelors she met professionally and socially. But clearly her parents hoped she could still do better than a grade school teacher earning around $18,000 a year. Scott strongly suspected Dr. and Mrs. Grey had played a large role in his neverending engagement.

He also recognized that his youth and stupidly pretty face had been a persistent source of discomfort to the Greys. Over the years Scott had accompanied Jean to hearings, conferences, seminars, performances, exhibits, opening night galas and fundraisers, where men and women alike presumed that any man as handsome as Scott must be an idiot and treated him accordingly. Scott knew Jean had stoically endured thousands of snide comments from hundreds of people about their relationship. It was one of the many reasons why he had loved her and why initially he had been unable to fathom her kamikaze run on Logan. If her parents and peers hadn't accepted Scott, who was at least polite and presentable, how did she expect them to react to Logan? _But I get it, now._ Jean had no intention of ever introducing Logan to her relatives and friends and professional acquaintances.

Jean was too young to be having a midlife crisis, but if she suffered from some sort of post-traumatic stress from the Liberty Island mission, Scott had no sympathy. A veteran of the American foster care system, Scott considered the Liberty Island mission to be the least stressful occurrence of his life and he was completely out of patience with his fiancée. As for Logan, well, Logan's motivation had always been easy to understand. Stealing the leader's woman was a strategic maneuver dating back probably to the Stone Age.

 _It took me too long to figure him out._ Logan had been and continued to be unimpressed with the amenities of the Institute – food and shelter; a haven from the mundanes; the security of being among his own kind. Sixteen-year-old Scott had been awestruck and abjectly grateful when Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier had scooped him off the streets of Hell's Kitchen. But Logan had arrived at the Institute as a grown man, experienced at protecting himself and providing for his own needs, a man who intensely disliked being beholden to others.

No, Logan hadn't stuck around because he needed sanctuary. Nor did he yearn for a family, or a sense of noble purpose. He'd stuck around for the ego boo. Boasting no qualification but possession of the X gene, he had been instantly admitted into the company of educated, informed people who behaved respectfully, spoke courteously, and listened gravely to whatever he spewed. _Conan the Barbarian does Pemberley_. While dismissing the residents of the mansion as schmucks, Logan clearly relished being treated by them with what he misinterpreted as deference. And naturally he was dazzled by Jean. Surely never in his peripatetic life had he had access to sophisticated, stylish women like Jean. Nor had Jean ever in her respectable life had access to cartoonish caricatures of masculinity like Logan.

But Logan did not love Jean. Jean did not love Logan. This Scott believed, and he was betting his future on it.

He'd persuaded Charles to attend the social workers' conference in Washington, D.C. He had used the lull in battle to fortify his telepathic defenses and to construct, review and refine his plan of action. In the process, Scott had unflinchingly considered every possible outcome, and decided all outcomes were acceptable. Whatever the endgame, he was determined to be satisfied; more than that, he was determined to be happy.

Scott glanced at the wall clock – three in the morning. Jean and Logan had returned at one. Even Logan had seemed wearied by the surveillance mission Scott had invented to keep them out of the house all day. Scott had used Jean's absence to gather and carry his personal belongings from the third-floor suite he shared with her to a vacant room on the fourth floor. It was that tragically easy to end their multiyear relationship. They weren't connected by a marriage certificate or biological children, or a mortgage, or even a jointly-owned car. They didn't have so much as a joint checking account. Looking back, Scott understood that Jean had been implementing advice from _someone_ – her father, a financial advisor, a fellow physician, a sorority sister – to refrain from mingling assets with her younger, poorer lover.

Scott commenced moving to the fourth floor after Ororo had dismissed the high schoolers for the day. He had used the central staircase rather than the elevator or service stairs and made no attempt to hide his activity. The teenagers he passed in the halls and on the staircase had stared bug-eyed and rushed off to gossip. His surrogate brother Bobby had appeared and carried a few boxes for him. _I'm done with her._ Bobby had nodded. _Whenever you wanna talk, Scott._ Yes, he'd talk with Bobby later.

Right now he needed to wake Jean and break up with her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 _In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are – Kristin Hannah_

Had Jean taken Scott aside in the early summer and told him, privately and quietly, that she wanted to swap him out for Muscles the Clown, Scott would have accepted her decision, eventually.

Of course, after emerging from a state of shock and denial, he would have attempted to change her mind. He would have pleaded, reasoned, cried, bargained, raged. But eventually, he would have accepted. He was too pragmatic to do otherwise. He would have managed to reconcile himself to the tragicomedy. He might even have laughed about it, one day.

But Jean had shown him no such respect or courtesy. While still involved with Scott, physically, romantically and _telepathically_ involved with Scott, she had begun what certainly appeared to be a relationship with Logan. Maybe Jean wasn't a powerful enough telepath to make Scott disregard the evidence of his senses. More likely she just didn't care about Scott's reaction. The new Jean, the post-Liberty Island Jean, was as callous as Jezebel.

And yet for years Jean had been his sanctuary, the source of his strength and happiness. He couldn't say he'd been miraculously healed by their relationship; no one was ever going to describe him as playful or joyful or optimistic; but he'd certainly become a lot less grim. The world might be going to hell for mutantkind, but on a day-to-day basis, peace and contentment pervaded Scott Summers. For years Jean had lived in his brain with his wholehearted consent. For years Jean had wandered freely through his mind and plucked his thoughts like dandelions. Until five days ago, when he had evicted her. And only through the prescience of Erik Lehnsherr did he even possess the ability to evict her.

 _She will need respite from your pubescent stupidity,_ Erik had said. _If you are determined to pursue an intimate relationship with a telepath, you must learn to contain your thoughts, or she will have no rest or peace in your company. You will either drive her away or drive her mad._

So Erik had guessed even then that one day Scott would want to reclaim his privacy.

Under the tutelage of Erik, Charles and Jean, Scott had conscientiously honed an ability to confine his thoughts to the inside of his head. He had envisioned his mind as a moated castle, equipped with portcullis, drawbridge and keep. Over the years the castle had assumed offensive as well as defensive capabilities as he added a barbican, battlements and murder holes, crenellations and machicolations. A dudgeon to which he consigned his most miserable memories and most private reflections, as well as the very few secrets he still kept from Charles and Jean. He used the castle construct not only to conceal thoughts from Jean but from himself.

But for most of those years, the mind-castle lay open and undefended. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis was up and the door of the keep stood open. The sun shone, the moat sparkled and white fluffy thought-sheep grazed in green fields. Only in the last five days had Scott prepared for a siege that might last his lifetime.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 _There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others – Niccolo Machiavelli_

Scott knew Jean would not have immediately noticed he'd permanently moved out of their suite, not because she was that uncaring but because he was that compulsively neat. He kept his gear stowed out of sight in the bathroom cabinets, kept his nightstand and dresser uncluttered, promptly put away clothes and shoes and coats. Scott considered it beneath a man's dignity to debate with a woman about décor and had given Jean free rein to furnish and decorate their living quarters as she pleased. In consequence, the suite entirely reflected her refined but feminine taste, and visitors were hard pressed to discern that Scott or indeed any man lived there.

He thought suddenly: _Has Logan ever been in here? Would she have had the nerve?_

He strode through the sitting room into the bedroom, and unceremoniously flipped on the overhead lights.

"What –" Jean flailed, tangling herself up in sheets and blankets, as Scott walked around the room, turning on every lamp.

"Wake up."

Finally propping herself on one elbow, Jean squinted up at him. She didn't try to communicate with him telepathically. Earlier in the week she'd bloodied her nose, metaphorically speaking, banging into the lowered portcullis of his mind-castle.

"Well, good morning, Scott, or good night, I don't know which it is." She affected an elaborate yawn. "What are you doing here? Are you ready for me to write a prescription?"

He had wondered if she might possibly take a remorseful tone when she saw him once again in their room. If she might welcome him back, express a desire to reconcile. Apparently not. Jean Grey, M.D., had steadily denied any wrongdoing and insisted he was delusional and paranoid. _Paranoid Personality Disorder._ Five days ago Scott had realized he was in actual danger of being locked down in the sublevels or even committed to a humans' hospital for involuntary treatment by his cheating girlfriend.

 _Are you ready for me to write a prescription?_ With those words Jean Grey ceased to be the love of his life. She ceased even to be a person to him. She became mere chattel, a piece of stolen property to be recovered.

"Well?"

"The engagement is off."

Jean's eyes widened. Then she groaned loudly and let herself fall back on the mattress. "Mother of God." Thirty years of living in New York hadn't entirely erased that Irish lilt. "Is this another one of your paranoid fantasies? Can't this conversation wait till morning?"

"The engagement is off. I want the ring back. Now."

He wondered if Jean might just roll over and dismiss him by feigning sleep. But the request for the ring seemed to provoke her ire. She sat up, glaring at him through slitted green eyes, glorious mane of curly red hair falling over her freckled creamy shoulders. She was so beautiful that he had to grit his teeth. He did not know with complete certainty how events would unfold. He might forever lose access to that glorious body.

 _All outcomes are acceptable,_ he reminded himself grimly.

"Scott, it's the middle of the night and I'm too tired to deal with your fragile ego. But if you keep accusing me of God knows what, the engagement really will be off."

"It _is_ off. I'm calling it off."

"Do you have to be so melodramatic?" _Gettin' her Irish up._ "All right, fine, let's have a fight. Maybe we can wake up everyone on the third floor."

"There's nothing to fight about. The engagement is off. It's off because I say it's off. I don't need your consent. This isn't the eighteenth century where you can sue me for breach of contract. Where's the ring?"

Wide awake now, Jean stared at him. Then, without a word, she pushed the blankets away and swung her long slim legs over the edge of the bed. She pulled the ring off her left hand and held it out. Scott walked forward, took it from her and dropped it in his pocket. Rigorous visualization exercises paid off; he had rehearsed this scene in his mind until he knew not an iota of emotion would escape him.

"Good night," he said, and turned around. He had guessed she would want to prolong the encounter. He was correct.

"So that's it, huh?"

He turned back. "I'm not quitting my job. I'm not moving out. So can we agree to behave like civilized people?"

Her face reddened. "No, Scott, I thought I'd behave like a harpy. Stop embarrassing yourself in front of everyone we know. Jealousy is a symptom of neurotic insecurity."

"I'm not jealous. I'm grateful." Scott smiled. "I decided to end this neverending engagement before the Liberty Island mission. I was just too cowardly to pull the trigger."

"You were not thinking about this in April."

Scott regarded her coolly. "You think you've always had complete access to my mind. But I never had complete access to your mind, did I. You were always holding back on me, weren't you. Keeping a piece of yourself to yourself. It didn't occur to you that I might be doing the same?"

Jean was silent.

"And then I brought Logan home, like a stray dog." Scott smiled again. "And I realized he could be of use to me. I suppose it was unfair to take advantage of his weakness, and yours. But now I've got my honorable out."

Jean had the gall to look dumbfounded. "What's happened to you? You haven't been the same since Liberty Island."

" _I_ haven't been the same?" Scott turned and walked to the door.

"Why are you acting like this?"

Scott stopped in the doorway. He looked back at her. "When I was twenty-one I was willing to propose to a thirty-year old. Now I'm twenty-seven. And I'm not willing to marry a thirty-six-year old. I want children, I mean biological children, and thirty-six is too old to get pregnant."

When Jean spoke, her voice was poisonously sweet. "Well, seeing as how I'm so old and dried up, I guess it would take a man like Logan to do the deed."

Scott softly closed the door behind him. Not until he was in the team gym in the sublevels, pulling on a pair of boxing gloves, did he allow his fury to boil over.

He pummeled a punching bag and thought: _You'll pay for that, Jean_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 _A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends – Baltasar Gracián_

Scott nursed a plate of scrambled eggs and a morning cup of coffee in the school's dining hall. Normally he ate breakfast and lunch with the prepubescents living on the fourth floor. With the aid of volunteers and paid helpers, about half of whom lived in, he ran the nursery, kindergarten and grade school. Ororo wrangled the teens and managed the high school. The division of work suited them. Twenty-four-year-old Ororo possessed the power of a snake charmer over her surly charges. Scott, who had infinite patience with screaming babies, tantruming toddlers and whiny ten-year-olds, had little tolerance for teens. There were exceptions, of course. Bobby, Kitty, Piotr, Hiroko. And maniacal Jubilee, who could always wring a laugh out him. But Scott had mostly written off the rest of the teens. Not that he wished them ill. He wished to see them positioned as best as possible for a successful and productive life, and then ushered out the door. But the small children – needy, loving, impressionable, pliable – they were his future X-Men. In ten years he'd have his homegrown army, soldiers who called him Daddy, for the inevitable war with humanity. _You were too impatient, Erik, and you showed your hand too soon._

Scott stolidly cleaned his plate and drained his coffee cup. He felt as if he were performing on a stage with spotlights aimed at him. Charles and Ororo were inbound, Jean and Logan were absent. Maybe they were celebrating together. Maybe Jean had slept in. Scott had simply skipped sleeping. It was as good an opportunity as any to practice operating under field conditions.

The teenagers were strangely subdued. Perhaps they understood that today was not the day to test Mr. Summers. They gawked at him and whispered amongst themselves. Bobby sat with his peers – Scott and Bobby had agreed that until Bobby graduated they would show no public preference for each other's company. But Bobby cast occasional troubled looks at him. He wished he could assuage Bobby's concerns. He wished he could take Ororo into his confidence. But he knew very well he was the only resident of the mansion with a black belt in telepathic blocking. If he gave Ororo and Bobby an explanation, they'd rebroadcast it loudly enough to wake up telepaths in Australia.

Rogue sat between Bobby and John. Obviously depressed, she picked at her breakfast and responded listlessly as her two admirers jockeyed for her attention. Now and then she glared at Scott. No doubt she considered it his duty to stand between her boyfriend and his girlfriend, and like a bad soldier he'd just abdicated his post.

Scott didn't understand why Rogue persisted in thinking of Logan as her boyfriend. It was essential to his plan that she do so, but he didn't understand. Neither Scott nor anyone else had ever seen Logan behave flirtatiously or romantically towards Rogue. Scott also failed to understand why Logan had been willing to die for the girl after an acquaintance of about ten days, but he surmised Rogue had triggered a memory of a sister or daughter. That Logan cared deeply for Rogue was indisputable, but he saved his inappropriate behavior for Jean Grey.

The pity of it all was that Logan would have been a valuable addition to the team. Not because he was a skilled fighter; he wasn't. Logan was a bar brawler who won fights because he had a healing factor, an adamantium-reinforced skeleton and adamantium claws. He won because he couldn't lose.

But the man's strength and endurance were phenomenal. He could lift, carry, run, jump, climb – he seemed inexhaustible, possessed of virtually unlimited aerobic and anaerobic capacity. Logan was a machine, and Scott wanted to put that machine to work for the new world order.

And as a matter of fact, Scott was pragmatic enough, strategic enough, to tolerate a romantic rival on the team, provided that rival added sufficient value. But Logan didn't want Scott's woman. He wanted Scott's life. He wanted to erase and replace Scott. He wanted to _be_ Scott. Scott knew he wasn't in a battle for a woman. He was in a battle for his own continued existence.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 _All war is deception – Sun Tzu_

Scott was not surprised to be summoned to Charles' study in the afternoon. The message was delivered by Charles' executive assistant over the house phone, presumably after Charles had recovered from bouncing like a basketball off the lowered portcullis of the mind-castle.

He walked in and seated himself on the sofa opposite Charles' desk. He didn't welcome Charles home, ask about the conference, or engage in other pleasantries. And the days of kneeling next to the wheelchair for an embrace were over.

Charles sighed and motored around his desk. He said nothing. _Cop trick. Lawyer trick._ Scott maintained his own silence in addition to a politely attentive facial expression.

At length Charles said, "I am sorry your engagement has ended. I am a bit confused as to when it ended and who ended it, but those details are irrelevant."

Scott nodded.

"I'm more concerned about why it's ended."

"You know why."

"You've invested many years in this relationship."

"I've invested six years in an engagement. That's five years too many." Scott rubbed his jaw. "Charles, as you are perfectly well aware, I'm done with Jean because she's cheating on me."

"Oh, Scott, where's your evidence?"

"I need _evidence?_ I need photos? I need to catch her in the act? Actually, no, Charles, I don't need _evidence_. Jean acts like an unfaithful woman and that's enough. I don't have to put up with even the appearance of infidelity. I have plenty of other options for female companionship."

"You're telepathically connected. How could she deceive you?"

"You're kidding, right? You think I'm still that naïve? I know that I know whatever Jean wants me to know. And we're not connected that way anymore. You and Jean have been treating my brain like a public library where you can read all the books for free. That stops now."

"You have always been entitled to set boundaries." Charles sighed. "Jean tells me she ended her relationship with you because she can no longer cope with your jealousy and accusations of infidelity."

"Then we've reached a satisfactory conclusion, haven't we. I'm free of my cheating girlfriend, she's free of her jealous boyfriend. Everybody's happy."

"I would be relieved to think that a ten-year relationship could be ended so neatly." Charles hesitated. "But Jean has also expressed concern for the well-being of our students."

"I know that most of these children have been victimized by dysfunctional adults. I would never do anything to re-traumatize them." Scott did not conceal his irritation. "There won't be any white-trash brawling in the mansion, Charles. No furniture will be thrown, no hair will be pulled. I completely trust Jean's professionalism, and she should know that she can trust mine."

"That is not precisely her concern." Charles hesitated again. "She feels that the Liberty Island mission may have… destabilized you."

"What? What does that mean in English?"

"She fears your health is deteriorating."

"She gave me a clean bill of health three days after the mission."

"Your mental health."

 _Erik, if I spend the rest of my life apologizing to you, it won't be enough._

"Combat stress? Does Jean think I'm going to go all psycho Vietnam vet on the kids? Jesus, she needs to step away from the television."

"Your annoyance is perfectly understandable."

"And I don't think bitter ex-girlfriends are allowed to diagnose their ex-boyfriends. I'm pretty sure there's a regulation about that. I could always check with the medical board." _Hi, I'm the mutant terrorist who defiled the Statue of Liberty and I want to lodge a complaint against my doctor._

"Naturally her judgement cannot be considered impartial."

"Charles, you're the psychiatrist, not Jean. So do you genuinely believe I'm a threat to the students?" _Not the cage fighter living down the hall? Me?_

"No, I do not. If I did, you would already be out of this house." Charles leaned forward, spoke gently. "Scott, I don't need to be a psychiatrist to diagnose a broken heart. Ending any long-term relationship is traumatic, and ending a long-term telepathic relationship is excruciating. And as you know, I speak from personal experience."

Scott knew his heart wasn't broken, but he was mollified by Charles' conciliatory manner. He relaxed back into the sofa cushions.

"Perhaps it's the right time for you to try a prescription medication. I know you're suffering, and there's no need to tough it out. You wouldn't refuse medication after a root canal or an appendectomy."

 _Erik, if I spend three lifetimes apologizing to you, it won't be enough._

Scott got up and walked to the window. He assumed a pensive expression.

"Actually, Charles, I do want to discuss Liberty Island with you. It's astute of Jean to notice that I've been preoccupied since the mission, although she's drawing the wrong conclusion."

"What do you mean?"

"I've reviewed my performance several times and frankly it's beyond unsatisfactory. I showed exceptionally poor judgement." Scott exhaled gustily. "I've had a hard time coming to grips with that. It was a blow to my pride. So maybe I did become a bit difficult to live with."

"I don't understand. The mission was a success, Scott."

"By the grace of God. Charles, we almost killed every politician at the World Leaders Summit to save Rogue. And saving Rogue was not the mission. The mission was to save every politician at the World Leaders Summit."

 _I let that WrestleMania clown pervert the mission. Maybe I do need medicating._

"Scott, sacrificing a child would be a difficult ethical decision for any leader."

"I disagree. The greater good was obvious. I should have blown the torch off the statue as soon as I set foot on Liberty Island. Instead I led us into a battle that wasn't necessary. A battle that dragged on and on until we were seconds from catastrophic failure. I shouldn't lead the team anymore, Charles. Logan's right. I'm immature and inexperienced. He's your new team leader."

It took all Scott's self-control not to burst out laughing at the gobsmacked expression on Charles' face. Scott maintained his own attitude of earnest composure.

"Scott, this is a… a drastic… _Logan?"_

Scott walked back to the sofa and sat. He leaned forward, clasped his hands. "Yes. He's a natural leader and he's got real combat experience."

"He does? How would you know? How would _he_ know?"

"It's obvious from his performance. And if he's lived as long as we think he has, he may be a veteran of every major twentieth-century conflict. World War I and World War II, of course. He thinks he's Canadian, so maybe he was involved in the British incursions of Ireland, Turkey and Afghanistan. It's possible he fought in Vietnam – Canada was an American ally in Vietnam." Scott did not add that Logan's disposition precluded any significant military rank or achievement. _Probably died by firing squad at least once._

"I had no idea you thought so highly of Logan. Or so poorly of yourself."

"No one should die because of my pride."

"Wouldn't Storm be your natural successor? She is the B Team leader, after all."

"The B Team doesn't deploy. Charles, I have no doubts about Storm's leadership ability, but she doesn't have any more combat experience than I do."

Scott wondered if Logan would accept the appointment. After all, it was lots of fun to be the juvenile delinquent in the back row disrupting the class. It was no fun at all to be the teacher. But Scott was counting on Logan's arrogance and ambition. He knew Logan, too, had a campaign plan:

 _Phase I: Steal Scott's property. Phase II: Steal Scott's woman. Phase III: Steal Scott's position on the team. Phase IV: Steal Scott's position in the school._ And if Scott was _still_ hanging around, kill him off.

"Scott, this is a lot to process. I had no idea our conversation would take this turn. I'll have to discuss this with the other trustees, of course. I can't make a unilateral decision."

Scott rolled his eyes behind the ruby quartz lenses. _Let it go. Shut up, get out, let it go…._ "Charles, you are the master of unilateral decisions."

"Excuse me?"

"You added Logan to the team just before we left for Liberty Island. You didn't discuss that in advance with your fellow trustees." _Or with me._

"It proved to be the right decision, did it not?"

"Nor did you consult anyone before you gave Logan the grand tour of the sublevels, including the Cerebro room and the hangar." Scott spread his hands and shook his head in remembered stupefaction. "Charles, you spilled your guts to a stranger. You connected the team to this school. You connected our names to the team. We have safety protocols for a reason, Charles. We're _criminals_. Did it never occur to you that Logan might have been an FBI informant? A plant?"

"Scott, you must realize I would never put you or this school in danger. I would not have taken Logan into my confidence unless I had been certain of his integrity."

"And how did you achieve certainty? Don't tell me you read his mind, because you can't. I know you can't. Neither can Jean. You can't read Erik's mind when he's wearing that metal helmet of his. Well, Logan's head _is_ a metal helmet. His skull is completely reinforced with adamantium. You can't know –"

He stopped mid-sentence. Charles eyed him warily.

"Oh, my God," Scott breathed. "I'm an idiot. It's so obvious. You know Logan. You know him and you _owe_ him."

"Scott, now you're simply fantasizing."

"When did you meet him, Charles? What kind of hold does he have over you? Is he blackmailing you?" Scott smacked himself in the head. " _Amnesia_. I'm an _idiot_. Amnesia only happens in soap operas. Logan remembers you just fine, doesn't he. And you can't reach into his metal head and erase the memory. You can't even dispose of him the old-fashioned way and kill him."

"Oh, Scott. Listen to yourself."

"That's why you sent us to pick him up." Scott lunged to his feet. "That's why you moved him into the house. Why you give him everything he wants. Up to and including _Jean_."

"Scott, please. Calm yourself." Charles spoke soothingly. "Your suppositions are not valid. They have no basis in reality."

"He's been in this house before. Why didn't I notice that? He knows this house and… I think he knows _me_."

A wave of dizziness swamped Scott and a peculiar low-pitched tone hummed in his ears, like machinery, or traffic, or rushing water. Grabbing the sofa arm for support, he remembered he'd been awake for thirty-four hours.

"Scott, I'm beginning to understand and share Jean's concern. I'm going to have to insist you accept a tranquilizer."

"If you or Jean drug me, you had better be prepared to keep me drugged for the next fifty years." Scott willed himself to stay upright, to walk to the door of the study without stumbling or falling. "I know I'm on to something. I don't know exactly what. But I will figure it out."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 _For now we see through a glass, darkly – 1 Corinthians 13:12_

He awoke with a start in his monk's cell of a room on the fourth floor. Rolling over, he stared at the analog clock on his nightstand. Nine o'clock. Nine o'clock at night, as no light penetrated the window. His stomach told him he'd skipped dinner and gone straight to his room for a nap after welcoming Charles back to the mansion.

Scott removed his sleep goggles, rubbed his temples and groped for his glasses. For a moment he clung to a rapidly dissolving nightmare of fire and flood, a roaring sound like a waterfall or a wildfire. But the nightmare trickled out of his grasp like sand.

Well, dinner would have been as uncomfortable an affair as breakfast, but he still regretted sleeping through it. It was the one meal of the day that his young charges ate in the mansion's dining hall with the older students and adults. None of his kiddies enjoyed the custom as it was also the one meal of the day that Mr. Scott required them to park their butts in chairs, use their indoor voices, and employ their embryonic table manners. The small children were also awed and intimidated by the older students who had "powers." Scott believed in segregating the children by age for their safety while Charles and Ororo believed there was a need to socially integrate all the mansion's residents. Thus, the daily dinner ritual.

Scott rolled out of bed and noted that at least he'd changed into sweats before crashing. Oh, well, it had been an interesting experiment. Now he knew he could go about thirty-four hours without sleep. He still felt quite tired. And why not, it had been a melodramatic thirty-four hours. _Food, then back to bed._

He stuck his feet into sneakers, then stepped out of his room into the hall. Through the archway into the dimly-lit day room he glimpsed one of his staffers. "Mrs. Patel?" he called softly.

A fifty-something woman padded out, her slippers making no noise on the hardwood floor. She didn't say _What the heck are you doing sleeping on the fourth floor?_ which meant every employee and volunteer at the Institute knew the story. What she said in her musically lilting voice was, "Good evening, Mr. Summers. I did not expect you to wake before morning. You looked very tired when you came upstairs."

"Yeah, I was. I don't even remember how I got to my room. Did our kids behave for you at dinner?"

"Oh, yes, they were fine."

Like almost every Institute employee and volunteer, Mrs. Patel was a gamma-class mutant, which, according to the Pentagon, meant she was a mutant with no evident powers. _Yes, I know I should not let our enemies define us_. He knew dinner duty made her nervous. Dining with alpha- and beta-class mutants between the ages of thirteen and eighteen made _everyone_ nervous. Every meal that passed without someone freezing, burning, flooding, disintegrating or blowing up the dining hall was a minor triumph. Mrs. Patel wasn't actually any safer outside the dining hall, but in a shining examples of cognitive dissonance, she was comfortable supervising the prepubescents on the fourth floor while the teens rampaged like rhinos on the second and ground floors.

"Remind me who's on duty with you tonight?"

"Mrs. Jackson, and Mrs. Hernandez is in the nursery."

He nodded. The babies seldom remained at the Institute for more than a few months. It was hearteningly easy to find adoptive parents for the youngest children, even those who were obvious mutants. The Institute was licensed by the state to operate as an adoption agency and as a foster care placement agency, in addition to its federal charter to operate as a private juvenile detention center for mutant offenders. Those operations, plus his political advocacy, kept Charles and his personal staff thoroughly occupied. It was Ororo and Scott who managed the day-to-day operations of their alma mater, the school Charles and Erik had founded.

"You have a good night, Mrs. Patel." He felt awkward standing in front of her without his armor – the oxford business shirt and tie, the dress slacks and suit jacket. "I'm going to get something to eat and then go back to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

She smiled and nodded. Mrs. Patel did not offer condolences on his failed relationship, perhaps because she was already plotting his marriage to a granddaughter. Mrs. Patel had some fine-looking granddaughters but he didn't think any of them would like to marry one of the FBI's Most Wanted. He smiled in return and walked down the hallway until he located the door to the service stairs.

The fourth floor had once been the servants' quarters and was connected by a maze of hidden staircases to the other floors and even to a tunnel exiting to an outbuilding. Xavier family legend had it that the mansion had been a station on the Underground Railroad and the tunnel seemed to corroborate that story. Scott followed the service stairs all the way down to what had once been the servants' hall in the basement and was now the staff kitchenette and unofficial clubhouse for the mansion's many employees and volunteers. Scott and Ororo still called it the servants' hall.

Ororo was there, feet up, sipping tea and watching a Bollywood movie on the TV/VCR. Ororo and indeed almost every female in the Institute was hooked on Bollywood. Scott blamed Mrs. Patel, the purveyor of bootleg videotapes, who, in a rational world, would have been convicted for dealing in mind-altering substances. Scott had once watched a Bollywood movie with Ororo and had found it to be a psychedelic experience akin to mainlining an entire season of _All My Children_ in three hours.

She looked up as he pushed open the door and walked into the room. A worried frown immediately curved her mouth and was just as quickly replaced by a grin.

Scott pointed to the screen. "I'm scared to ask, but, what's happening?"

"The dead wife's back as a ghost."

"Is that all?" He stooped and smooched her cheek. "No international spies? Arranged marriages? Twins separated at birth?"

"Well, sure, but that was in the first ten minutes." She jerked her thumb at the fridge. "I didn't know if you were going to sleep right through till morning, but I saved a plate of dinner for you."

"Thanks." Scott smiled affectionately at her. Not for the first time he thought, _Why couldn't you fall in love with me, Ro?_

He felt Ororo's eyes on him as he pulled the plate out of the fridge and stuck it in the microwave. She said, "So do you want to hear about the conference? Long story short, it was a frustrating waste of time."

"No, Charles filled me in." He carried the plate to the table and began eating hungrily. "And tried to talk me out of breaking up with Jean."

"He feels guilty. As he should."

Scott swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes and paused.

"What?"

"There's something I want to ask you about Charles."

"Shoot."

Scott hesitated. Finally, he laughed. "I forgot what I wanted to say," he confessed.

"It's hell getting' old, bro."

"Yeah, yeah." Scott forked a piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

Ororo banged her mug down on the tabletop. "And just so you know, I'm mad at you for unleashing the drama while I was away. The shit that goes on in this house! It's better than Bollywood."

"Sorry to deprive you."

"Ok, seriously, how are you doing?"

"I'm ok." He smiled. "I'm kind of embarrassed about phoning you last night and getting all weepy on your shoulder."

"And I completely failed to get it on tape, dammit. Were you actually drunk?"

"No, I was sober. Which makes it even more embarrassing. And you're right, I should have figured out a long time ago that it was over."

Ororo shrugged. "Any woman who keeps putting off her wedding day for six years… well, that was a great big fuckin' clue."

"Yeah, somehow I managed to miss that."

She leaned forward. All facetiousness vanished. "Scott, Charles told me that you want to resign the team leadership. That you're recommending _Logan_ as team leader. Is this true, or am I having some kind of psychotic break with reality?"

Scott put down his fork. "It's true. I recommended Logan based on his extensive combat experience."

" _What_ freakin' combat experience? You mean beating up on people in bars for money?"

"As I said to Charles, Logan is probably a veteran of every major war of the twentieth century."

"That's like saying John Wayne was a veteran of every war."

"No. Logan's the real deal. I'm the fake. Everything I know about military operations, I've taught myself out of books. He's lived it."

"Then I guess I'm a fake too. And we've managed to fake our way through plenty of missions even if we aren't the Navy SEALs. You haven't forgotten the Brooklyn mission, have you?"

"No." It would be a cold day in Hell's Kitchen when he forgot the Brooklyn mission.

"Scott, for God's sake, why are you having this existential crisis?" Ororo threw her hands up. "You haven't been the same since Liberty Island."

"I'm not the one who changed."

Scott picked up his fork again. He finished the meatloaf and green beans and used a hunk of bread to sop up the potatoes and gravy. Scott always cleaned his plate like a dog. Each meal helped satisfy the energy demands of his mutation but also temporarily quelled his neverending fear of hunger. Years at the Institute had not erased the visceral memory of semi-starvation in detention centers, foster homes, group homes, and squats in abandoned properties.

Ororo said nothing while he finished eating, recalling, probably, how difficult it was for him to concentrate on anything other than the food in front of him until it was gone. She spoke again when he got up to wash his plate, cup and utensils.

"I've been thinking about something," she said. "Something about Liberty Island."

" _Which_ something?"

"The energy wave."

"What about it?"

"It rolled right over us, that's what."

Scott shrugged. "Yes, but it didn't affect us. We know it only affected humans."

"Well, we didn't turn into puddles of goo, but I think it affected us."

Scott carefully considered Ororo's words as he hung up the dishtowel. Sitting down again at the table, he said slowly, "Jean's gotten stronger. Her telekinesis. She's having some difficulty controlling it. I don't mean that anyone's in danger. But, yeah. She's gotten stronger." Stronger and meaner and nastier. More callous, more careless, more aggressive.

He thought suddenly: _I turned away from her. That's why she turned to Logan_.

"I don't think that's a coincidence."

Scott said distractedly, "What?"

"Jean getting stronger after Liberty Island. What about you?

"No, I haven't changed at all. What about you? I assume something happened to get you thinking about this."

"Yes." She hesitated again, then got up. Scott watched curiously as she turned on the water taps and took a dry, droopy houseplant off the ledge over the sink. Holding the pot in one hand, she held her other hand over the plant. Nearly a minute passed in complete silence.

Then Scott saw what looked like fog form under the palm of Ororo's hand. Misty precipitation enveloped the plant.

Ororo spoke breathlessly, as if she were trying to speak and jog at the same time. "You're always raggin' on me that I can whip up a hurricane but I can't water a houseplant. Well, I can, now. Water a houseplant."

Surprised, impressed, Scott got up and took the pot from her. He touched the damp leaves of the plant, stirred the moist soil around with the tip of a finger. "Ro, this is tremendous. It's an exponential increase in your fine control. Why didn't you say anything before?"

Ororo inhaled. "I wanted to be sure it wasn't a fluke. That I could do it consistently." She took the pot from him and gave it a good soaking under the cold water tap, then put it back on the ledge and shut off the water.

Scott leaned against the sink. "Have you noticed anything different about Rogue?"

"Well, it's not like we really knew her before Liberty Island, but her condition seems to be unchanged. And Logan wouldn't change, of course." Ororo shrugged. "The two of them are connected now, in a way, like a blood transfusion or organ transplant, so maybe Rogue didn't change because Logan doesn't change. And Erik, well, if his powers have changed, how would he even know it, inside that plastic cube."

"I think this is worth discussing with Hank the next time he visits. I know he's going to give us the speech about correlation not equaling causation, but it's certainly worth discussing." Scott hesitated. "Charles and Jean are going to hear you thinking about this."

"Well, I don't know how to turn down the volume on my thinking, so yeah, probably. But there's no reason to keep it a secret."

"I suppose not." Scott suddenly yawned. "OK, I'm going back to bed now." He caught hold of her hand and squeezed it. "Thanks for dinner and the moral support."

Ororo looked up at him. She started to speak, hesitated.

"What?"

"Scott… you don't have to put up with this shit. This shit with Logan and Jean."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Warren's talked about expanding the operation to the West Coast. Maybe this is the time."

Scott looked down at her in surprise. "That's a drastic solution."

"Well, think about it." She pushed him gently towards the door to the service stairs.

Scott thought about it as he eschewed the elevators and trudged all the way up to the fourth floor. Was this the solution to his Logan problem? He could just… leave. _Retreating is advancing the fight in a different direction._ Move to a new city. Start a new school, form a new team, find a new wife.

As he fell into bed he thought again, uncomfortably, _I turned away from Jean and she turned to Logan._

And he thought: _Maybe Jean just got fed up with me. Got tired of taking care of me. Catering to all my issues. Maybe she felt more like my nurse than my wife._

He compartmentalized the thoughts in the dudgeon of the mind-castle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 _War teaches us not to love our enemies but to hate our allies – Walter Lionel George_

Scott thought the mission at the Red Hook Container Terminal in Brooklyn was the most complicated mission the X-Men had ever undertaken. In an unbiased world Charles would have simply shared his initial suspicions and meager evidence with the police. But the thugs in blue were as complicit as the seamen, longshoremen, stevedores and warehousemen working the blighted Brooklyn waterfront. Charles had feared the puppet master controlling the operation would not only bury the evidence but the victims.

Scott had called in favors and issued markers like a Las Vegas casino, cajoled allies and summoned auxiliary team members. The mission had been preceded by an intense week of research, interviews, surveillance, burglary, undercover work, mapping, planning and rehearsing. Scott had deliberately brought in the nondeployable B Team to help collect, assemble and analyze the information, and create the operations order; it had been a sobering and enlightening experience for the teens. And then, finally, the assault, liberating mutants destined for sale overseas. They'd even secured hard drives and transaction records that might help recover other victims or at least provide closure.

Scott had dialed open the aperture of his visor to lethal force for the assault, and he and Storm concluded the operation by annihilating the entire Red Hook marine terminal. Some of the human rats had still escaped to tell the tale, but the official story was that freak tornadoes spawned by a severe thunderstorm had caused the spectacular destruction.

Scott had not thought he had anything left to prove to himself or others after the Brooklyn mission. But then Erik Lehnsherr – _our crazy uncle in the attic,_ as Ororo referred to him – decided he had invented the solution to mutantkind's problems.

If Erik's machine had worked as advertised, Scott would not have done a damn thing to shut it down. Oh, he would have made a great show of working desperately to thwart Erik, but would have conveniently failed. Rogue's life would have been a small price to pay for securing the existence of the species. Unfortunately, Erik's machine _didn't_ work, which catapulted the X-Men into a no-notice mission, the Liberty Island mission, their Super Bowl, their World Cup, a mission played out before an international audience for the highest possible stakes.

Sebastian Shaw and the other Xavier Foundation trustees had expressed tremendous satisfaction with the mission's outcome. Liberty Island had justified their foresight, their commitment, their tremendous financial investment, and oh yes, their criminal support of mutant terrorism. Only Warren Worthington had been astute enough to perceive that which had eluded the others. After public congratulations, Warren had privately given Scott the tongue-lashing he knew he deserved: _"The mission was to prevent a worldwide mutant genocide, which is exactly what would have happened if Erik had succeeded in killing every politician at the World Leaders Summit. And who knows how far that energy wave might have spread. Millions of people in New York and New Jersey might have died too. And you put the mission in peril trying to save a maiden in distress. I didn't think you were that kind of romantic slob, Scott."_

But there was dignity in accepting blame for bad decisions. In castigating Scott, Warren had accorded him the respect due a decision-maker. And Scott knew he hadn't been the decision-maker on Liberty Island.

Warren Worthington didn't wait until after Labor Day to visit the mansion. He showed up at the mansion the day after Scott's conversation with Charles.

Warren was a massive man enfolded by massive white wings, and the blond hair and blue eyes did nothing to soften the terrifying impression he made. He stood in the archway of the fourth-floor dayroom, legs spread, arms folded, granite-faced. _Houston, Michael the Archangel has landed._ He wore cleverly seamed suits instead of chainmail and carried a checkbook instead of a flaming sword, but Scott had no problem envisioning him slaughtering demonic hordes or recalcitrant employees.

It was the children who alerted Scott to Warren's presence. Those who had met him before ran to him shrieking in excitement. Those who hadn't met him couldn't resist edging closer anyway, fascinated by the wings. The harsh lines of Warren's face softened as he knelt to accept hugs, listen to childish babble, admire artwork and distribute small pieces of candy. At Scott's request he brought only token gifts when he visited. _They should love you for keeping a roof over their heads,_ Scott had said.

Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr had founded the Institute, but Warren Worthington, scion of American royalty and the most visible mutant in the world, was responsible for its continued existence. When the Salem Center town council and Westchester County executive had raised Charles Xavier's property taxes to a cool million, in an effort to shut down his group home for mutant children, Charles had applied to the Worthington Foundation for a grant. His application had resulted in an invitation to a personal meeting with Warren, who had ultimately adopted Charles' dream as his own. Under Warren's guidance, Charles had sold his property, which had been in his family for over two hundred years, to a newly-minted tax-exempt Section 501(c)(3) charitable organization, the Xavier Foundation. The trustees, discreetly recruited by Warren, were individuals in his social sphere whom he knew to be mutants passing as ordinary humans, or rather, passing as ordinary multimillionaires.

On an ongoing basis, Warren defended the children from the legal maneuvering and regulatory burden that their enemies imposed for no purpose but to disrupt their little lives. Scott routinely talked to his kids about Warren, tasked them to make gifts for Warren – paintings and drawings, mysterious creations of construction paper and lace doilies, homemade cards and letters sprinkled with gobs of glue and glitter. Scott packaged the gifts in scrapbooks that Emma told him Warren frequently paged through and displayed in his home and office. It had occurred to Scott, and apparently to no one else, that _someone_ needed to forge an emotional connection between their benefactor and the children. He didn't think abstract concepts of species survival were enough motivation to keep Warren in the ring.

Scott stood back, wondering where Emma was. Unfortunately he couldn't raise the portcullis of the mind-castle for her. He didn't know how to let in one telepath and keep out two others at the same time. He didn't wonder where Warren's entourage was. His telepathically-vetted people would have proceeded to spread out around the grounds and house like Secret Service agents preparing for an inauguration. Iconic as JFK Junior, Warren Worthington would have been a target even if he weren't a mutant, but he _was_ a mutant, a wealthy, famous, influential mutant, and there were many ideologues who sincerely wished him dead.

At length Warren rose to his feet and Scott moved in, gently ushering the children away and asking his helpers to take them outdoors to play. Warren shook hands with the star-struck volunteers and employees and thanked them for their hard work and dedication. Scott caught only second-hand glimpses of Charming Warren, but this, too, was a mark of Warren's regard. Like generals and politicians, he was exquisitely polite to underlings and pitiless to his adjutants.

At length Scott and Warren stood alone in the dayroom, floor littered with toys, walls decorated with posters and charts and art. Warren didn't sit in one of the few adult-sized chairs in the room. Scott also remained on his feet. He did not pace or rock or gesture or stick his hands in his pockets. He maintained a relaxed stance and waited silently; he never filled a void with idle chatter and seldom spoke until he was spoken to, two lessons beaten into him as a child. As an adult he had realized to his surprise that this behavior was perceived as powerful.

"Charles notified me that you want to resign as team leader." Warren shook his head. "I suppose this is the result of the conversation we had after Liberty Island. Scott, I thought you were mature enough to take constructive criticism. I didn't think you'd melt like a snowflake."

"I've reflected on your advice for three months, Warren. Snowflakes melt a lot faster than that." Scott spoke dispassionately. "You critiqued my performance because you want me to be successful. I want to be successful too. I want the team to be successful. I believe that goal can best be accomplished under Logan's leadership."

Warren did not interrupt. Scott supposed that was a strategy taught at Wharton.

"We can take it for granted he's served in World War I and World War II. He's got extensive experience, real-world combat experience. I saw that at Liberty Island. And I can't replicate that kind of experience by reading Army field manuals." Scott shook his head. "The team's stuck right now, stuck at my level. They can't rise any higher than my level of competence. And I want to see them take it to the next level. Maybe Logan joined us by accident, but he's here now. I'm doing the team a disservice by clinging to the leadership position when a more qualified man has joined us."

Scott ceased speaking. Warren waited, studying him. Scott did not proceed to nervously babble to fill the silence. _The foster care system taught me more about acting powerful than you ever learned in CEO school, Warren._

What Scott did not add was _There is a hell of a difference between fighting World War II as Gomer Pyle and fighting World War II as Eisenhower_. Scott was certain Logan had never amounted to more than cannon fodder because Logan had obviously never outgrown a childish need to fight authority. _Let's see you fight authority when you are the authority_.

Eventually Warren said, "You make a persuasive argument for Logan as team leader."

"I'm making an argument for progress, which incidentally involves Logan as team leader."

"I can't say I've ever had a man recommend his ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend for the top spot. I'm not sure if you're exceptionally self-aware or having a crisis of confidence." Warren folded his arms. "Scott, five years ago, I recommended you for team leader, and I didn't do that because I had no other options. There's always a Navy SEAL willing to sell out to the highest bidder. The name Erik Prince comes to mind."

 _You'd have to pay Erik Prince a million dollars a year to do what I do. Vigilante, pilot, grade school teacher, plumber, electrician, mechanic…_

Warren sighed "You operate so professionally that I forget you're not a professional soldier. You're a soft-hearted civilian under the leather, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that works in our favor. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the mission involves protecting children, or adults who are as helpless as children. But Liberty Island was the one mission, the _one_ mission, that called for sacrificing a child to the greater good. And I should not have been surprised that you couldn't do it."

Scott resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder to see who Warren was talking to.

Warren sighed again. "So upon further reflection, I understand that I'm the one to blame for the near-catastrophe at Liberty Island. I'm supposed to understand my people, their strengths and weaknesses."

"No. You delegated leadership to me. You shouldn't have to micromanage me afterwards."

Warren nodded, slowly. He looked around the room, walked to a chair and seated himself, carefully draping his wings over the back of the chair.

Scott grabbed a chair, dragged it over and sat. It seemed Collegial Warren had joined the conversation.

"I accept your recommendation," Warren said, "although I'm not entirely convinced you're the wrong man for the job or Logan's the right man. But I will advise my fellow trustees to give him the opportunity if he accepts." Warren fell silent a moment. "You're understandably focused on the relationship between Logan and Jean, but I'd like to draw your attention to the relationship between Logan and Charles. The rather inexplicable relationship."

"Yes," Scott said grimly. "I've noticed."

"Logan's not an employee of the Xavier Foundation, so that makes him a houseguest. Charles' guest."

"He isn't paid for missions? He wasn't paid for Liberty Island?"

"Let me clarify. He's not on the payroll, but he's paid for each individual mission he participates in, as if he were an independent contractor. The same way we pay the auxiliary team members. But he hasn't signed a contract. And he's paid cash. Actual wads of dollar bills. Which has required some creative accounting."

"So basically we're paying an illegal alien under the table?"

"Well, you're the guy who flew him over the border. What exactly does Logan do around here all day?"

"I don't know. He works directly for Charles. Special projects, something. He comes and goes, with no explanation. I know Charles is paying him directly, cash, out of his own pocket. Something his executive assistant mentioned, because she's the one who has to procure the cash."

"Charles is giving him cash? That's very interesting. That may be the most interesting thing I've heard all summer." Warren gazed meditatively at the children's artwork pinned to the wall. "I'm frankly mystified by the influence Logan wields over Charles. If Logan's a con man, I haven't been able to figure out what the con is."

"I have a theory."

"Yes?"

Scott hesitated. Finally, he laughed in embarrassment. "I forgot what I was going to say."

"You have a lot on your mind." Warren shrugged. "When you notified me back in May that Charles had shown a veritable stranger the Cerebro and the Blackbird…. If anyone other than Charles had acted so rashly, Jimmy Hoffa would have had some company under the goal posts of Giant Stadium."

Warren's father had been rumored to have had a hand in Hoffa's disappearance. Scott could believe it.

"You do know Charles is going to pull this conversation right out of your head on your way out the door."

"I've already had this conversation with Charles," Warren said tensely. "And the fact that Logan's skull is completely coated with metal is alarming. Emma confirmed for me that he's telepath-proof. Exactly what I'd expect of a government infiltrator. I thought he might be FBI or CIA or CSIS."

"Charles and Jean say they can read his mind."

"You don't believe that and neither do I. But an alphabet agency would have provided Logan with a cover story, a background. A military record, a criminal record. The fact that he has _no_ background is strange. It's like he parachuted in from another planet." Warren spread his hands. "I suppose my concerns are irrelevant. He proved his loyalty to us at Liberty Island."

 _No, he didn't. He did his best to blow the mission. He kept us completely focused on saving Rogue. At the last possible second, I remembered what we were there to do._

But Scott couldn't admit that without admitting he'd allowed Logan to seize control of the mission, redefine the mission, send them all hurtling down the path to failure. _I was weak, I was indecisive, I deferred to his judgment.  
_

"And you're even recommending him for the top spot. Scott, I have some difficulty picturing you in a subordinate role. Do you really think you can take orders from Logan?"

"I'd actually prefer to resign from the A Team."

Warren inhaled. Abruptly he rose to his feet. Scott stood also. It seemed Antagonistic Warren was back.

"Scott, you promised me no drama and no mission impact. I'm holding you to that. I realize this is an awkward situation but you are just going to have to pull on your big-boy pants and figure out a way to work with your ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend."

Scott interjected, quietly but firmly. "I'm not crazy enough to go on missions with a man who wants me dead."

Warren stared at him. Scott looked calmly back. Finally Warren wheeled and strode to the window. He looked out, obviously not admiring the view but collecting his thoughts. Scott waited silently.

Warren turned. "Jean says you're paranoid, and when you say shit like that, I have to wonder if she's right."

"My cheating girlfriend says I'm paranoid."

"She says she's not cheating."

"My cheating girlfriend says she's not cheating."

"Point taken."

"Jean is the team doctor, my doctor. I dumped her and she's using her privileged position to get back at me. I suppose I should be grateful she doesn't work for the IRS."

Warren paused irresolutely. After a moment, he said, "Why would Logan harm you? What's his motive? You gave Jean up. He's got what he wants."

"Do you really think this is about a woman?" Scott turned away. "I need to get back to the kids."

It was probably the first time in Warren's adult life that an employee had walked out on him.

"Scott."

He turned around.

"For a couple of years now I've talked about expanding this operation to the West Coast. Opening another school, starting another team. Maybe this is the right time. Would you consider moving to San Francisco?"

 _This is my home. I'm not the one who's going to move out.  
_

"Warren, I'm honored. I need to think about it, though. It would be a huge responsibility."

"I have no doubt you're up to it." Warren stepped forward. He spoke warmly, or as warmly as Warren ever spoke. "Scott, you can't fulfill your potential with Xavier towering over you like Mount Fuji. It's time you stepped out of his shadow. You've learned all you can from him and you're ready to move on and be your own man. By the way. That's the speech my uncle gave me about my father."

Scott smiled.

"But take your time. Meanwhile I'll float the idea to the other trustees."

Scott nodded, smiled again. He turned and walked away.

It was time to launch the next phase of his campaign.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 _Never make a companion equal to a brother – Hesiod_

Those with a need to know were informed that Cyclops was temporarily transferring from the active team to the auxiliary in order to focus on a special project for Warren Worthington; and that Wolverine had agreed to serve as team leader for the foreseeable future.

Naturally, everyone without a need to know was gossiping about it by dinner time. Some believed that Scott was taking a sabbatical to mend his broken heart. Others thought Scott was planning an X-Men mission that would rival D-Day. Wolverine's appointment as team leader generated fierce debate. About half deemed it nuts and about half thought it logical. Logan did, after all, fight for a living.

Scott was pleased to learn secondhand that Logan had accepted the position of team leader. If Logan were really a government infiltrator, he would use his privileged position to betray the X-Men and their affiliates. If he was exactly what he said he was, he would screw up until his incompetence was evident and intolerable.

What Scott had not anticipated was Wolverine taking over the B Team's self-defense classes from Storm.

Down in the servants' hall, Ororo fumed about the change. Logan had also taken over the B-team's field classes such as land navigation and wilderness survival. "Am I the B Team leader or am I not? Or am I just the team leader for the scutwork?"

Teaching the military science classes to the B Team wasn't scutwork, and managing the high school was a full-time job in itself, but Scott made sympathetic noises as she vented. He thought uncomfortably that he should have acted months ago to reduce Ororo's workload. _I should have asked Charles to give Logan the field classes._ Initially he had not done so because every morning he had expected Logan to be gone by night, and later he had not done so because he would not give Logan a role that would justify his continued presence in the house.

Ororo heaped abuse on Scott as well. "This is all your fault, Scott. Get out before I fry you."

Scott exited stage left and trudged up the service stairs to the second floor. He strode down the hall to the east wing and rapped on the door of the room Bobby Drake shared with three other boys. Supposedly shared with three other boys; the room always seemed to contain six or eight. "Will Mr. Drake please step out into the hall?" he called out ominously. "We need to have a little chat."

Howls, yells, cheers and jeers erupted behind the door. Eventually Bobby stepped out and closed the door firmly behind him. He rolled his eyes. "Kids these days," he mimicked.

Scott smiled at him. Over the years he had come to love Bobby as a person in his own right and not as an Alex Summers substitute. Bobby's sunny disposition was the Balm of Gilead for Scott's soul. A general favorite among the students, the unofficial school president, Bobby remained optimistic about the world his generation was inheriting. His idealism was a source of guilt to Scott, a spur to Scott's endeavors. He wanted to make the world the kind of place Bobby thought it was.

Bobby peered at him in evident concern. "You doing okay, Scott?"

Scott nodded and smiled. Several days ago he had allowed Bobby to console him for the loss of Jean. Bobby had insisted on getting out of the mansion and going down to Breakstone Lake. While genuinely sympathetic, Bobby had obviously relished the opportunity to be the older man's confidante. Scott had realized, and it was a bittersweet realization, that the relationship between them was rapidly equalizing. Bobby was growing up, becoming another adult, becoming a friend.

"Do you have fifteen minutes?" Scott pointed down the hall. "Can we talk in the study room?"

"Yeah, sure." Bobby fell into step beside Scott.

"You're not in the middle of homework?" School was in session year-round at Xavier's, although classes were only held in the morning during summer session.

"It's Friday night, Scott. I realize that doesn't mean anything to an old fart like you."

"Yeah, so why are you still in the house?"

"Cuz we're too cheap to buy dinner in the city. We're gonna eat here and then go in."

Scott closed the door of the second-floor study room behind them.

"So what's up?"

Scott dropped into a chair. "Logan's taking over the self-defense classes."

"Yeah, we heard." Bobby shrugged and sat. "Is that some kind of surprise to you?"

"Yes."

"And you don't like it. Well, he gets to make the rules now, Scott, and whose fault is that?" Bobby immediately softened his tone. "And it does make sense. The guy fights for a living. He knows how to fight."

"He doesn't. I've studied his fights." At Bobby's curious look, Scott clarified. "Bootleg videos. Remember the business trip I took back in June? I did some bar-hopping in Alberta."

"That was sneaky. I approve."

"And he doesn't know how to fight. He just flails those adamantium fists around until people fall down. Logan's left a trail of broken bodies from Alaska to Panama. He's permanently crippled a few people. And what are they going to do, file police reports?" Scott inhaled. "I am telling you this because I want to put you on your guard. Try to avoid sparring with him, and if you have to spar with him, let him win and let him win quickly. Try to keep him at arm's length. Please."

Scott did not add _He may know you're special to me. Jean may have said something._

Bobby was silent for a moment. Finally he said. "Got it. Should I pass the word to the rest of the B Team?"

"No. I can't trust them to keep quiet. And it's not really possible to hurt Hisako or Kitty or Piotr. John…." Scott did not say _John can take care of himself better than anyone I know._ "Logan's in more danger from John than John is from Logan. I know Rogue just joined the B Team, but nothing's going to happen to Rogue. That leaves Jubilee. Don't say anything to her but keep an eye out for her. Create a distraction if you need to."

"Look, Scott, if you're this worried, can't you talk to the Professor?"

"The Professor doesn't listen to me on the topic of Logan, for obvious reasons."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll look out for Jubes." Bobby spoke earnestly. "Look, I'm sure things will be okay. I mean, this isn't like living on the cagefighting circuit, where he can bust up a guy and move on. He's the team leader now. He lives here now. He's not gonna screw that up."

Scott pretended to be reassured. "You're probably right. I'm probably worried about nothing."

Bobby thumped him on the shoulder. "Okay, I gotta get back."

"Wait, Bobby, there's one more thing. Something I need to know." Scott rubbed his jaw. Everyone thought of this as _Scott's nervous tick._ Scott employed it whenever he wanted people to think he was nervous. "What's going on with you and Rogue? Are you serious about her?"

"Uh, what?" Bobby laughed.

"I really need to know. Are you in love with her?"

"Wow. Okay, Dad. Um." Bobby sobered up. He paused to collect his thoughts. "I like her. I could like her a lot. But I'm not going to. Not gonna let that happen."

Scott remained encouragingly silent and attentive.

"For one thing, I graduate next year and thanks to Mr. Worthington I'm going to Boston College. Maybe I got a shot at playing for their hockey team. And I don't wanna get serious about any girl here at Xavier's when I'm gonna be leaving. I don't wanna do the long-distance thing."

"I'm impressed. That's some pretty mature thinking there."

"Yeah, don't give me too much credit. Rogue made it easy for me." Bobby sighed. "She's got this crush on Logan. And I get it, he saved her life. I can't compete with that."

"How can she still – does she really not understand –"

"Sure she does. But I guess she thinks he's gonna change his mind." Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Okay." But Scott did not smile back. "But that's not exactly why I asked. I wanted to make sure you weren't interested in her, because I am."

Bobby stared blankly at Scott a moment before bursting out laughing. "Man, you had me going there."

Scott said nothing.

" _Rogue?_ Did you not hear a word I just said?"

"I did."

"Then what's wrong with you? Why would you put yourself through that? Are you just looking for a fight with Logan?"

"Logan is pretty obviously interested in someone other than Rogue, so why would there be a fight?"

"Well, maybe he's not madly in love with her, but he cares about her."

"So what? That makes him one of a hundred people who care about her. Logan's got no rights here. He's not her father or brother. He doesn't get to tell her who to be with."

"What makes you think she'd want to be with you? Isn't it enough for you…. Scott, what's wrong with you? You gotta go break your heart over another girl who's involved with Logan?"

"Rogue isn't involved with Logan except in her imagination."

"But, Scott, you're nine years older than her."

Scott laughed. "Well, that would be a change."

"Okay, never mind that. Do you really want a girlfriend you can never touch?"

"I'm a resourceful kind of guy, Bobby. When the time comes, _if_ the time comes, I'll figure something out."

Bobby got up and clutched at his head. "I'm gonna wake up tomorrow and this is all gonna be a dream."

Scott laughed again. He stood as well, put a hand on Bobby's back and propelled him out of the study room. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss this with anyone."

"Oh, I won't. Who'd believe me?"

 _But you'll be thinking about it so loudly that Charles and Jean won't be able to avoid hearing you. And that's fine._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 _Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting – Sun Tzu_

Scott found it surprisingly simple to avoid Jean, Logan and Charles. He slept on the fourth floor, ate breakfast and lunch on the fourth floor, and worked mostly on the fourth floor. The two-hundred-year-old mansion had no central air conditioning, and Scott spent most of the hot summer afternoons outdoors with his kids at the Xavier estate's private swimming hole, Breakstone Lake, which had been Breakstone Creek until eighteen-year-old Scott had had an unfortunate accident. (Charles had taken the devastation rather calmly at the time, simply ordering the construction of a boathouse and truckloads of sand to build a beach. Charles' crotchety eighty-year-old neighbor, Mr. Albert Jenkins, had called NORAD to report a nuclear explosion, but local police assured the military that Mr. Jenkins was a crank who constantly reported explosions, earthquakes, bizarre weather events, and UFOs.)

Scott still made daily trips to his office on the ground floor. He still hung out occasionally in the servants' hall, a venue that had never appealed to Jean and didn't seem to appeal to Logan either. He still ate in the dining hall in the evenings, but instead of sitting at the senior staff table he sat with his kids and preoccupied himself with wrangling them. He used the inferior school gym on the ground floor instead of the superior team gym in the sublevels. His two visors stayed stowed in his team locker with his uniforms.

He discovered that all his business with Charles could be accomplished via email or phone calls to Charles' executive assistant. He discovered how quickly a man could lose touch with his soulmate. For years Jean Grey had led an overscheduled life, but in the post-Scott era she operated at a frenzied pace. She was out of the house early, returned late, and frequently overnighted in the city.

As to Logan, Ororo reported that Logan seemed lost without his Scott-shaped punching bag. He also seemed bewildered by his out-in-the-open, officially-acknowledged relationship with Jean Grey. Taking their cue from Scott, everyone affiliated with the Institute treated Jean and Logan like an old married couple. Logan was like a barking dog who'd chased a bus and now that he'd caught it he didn't know what to do with it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 _You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you – Leon Trotsky_

Saturday meals in the dining hall were unstructured affairs, with food put out in refrigerated cases and people wandering in and out to fix their own meals. Scott regularly ate breakfast at the crack of dawn with his kids on the fourth floor. But at eight o'clock on this particular Saturday morning, Scott turned the fourth floor over to his helpers, seated himself in the dining hall and patiently waited like a lion at a watering hole.

Scott's unsuspecting sources of information proved correct when Rogue wandered in alone around nine, microwaved herself a hot breakfast and sat by a window to eat. Rogue always dressed nicely, eschewing the jeans-and-t-shirt uniform of the other teenage girls; today she wore a calf-length dark green dress that clung flatteringly to her hourglass figure. Eighteen-year-old Rogue had obviously made peace with her unfashionable nineteenth-century body type and did not try to wear clothes designed to hang off a boyish runway model. Studying Rogue, Scott thought: _I'm not going to have to fake everything._

Rogue hadn't brought a book or magazine and simply contemplated the view as she ate, with a pair of wrist-length gloves lying to one side of her plate. Her dress was sleeveless and a sheer cardigan hung over the back of her chair. The benefit of eating alone; she didn't have to keep her skin covered for the protection of fellow diners.

Rogue, as Marie D'Ancanto wished to be known, had a cordial yet awkward relationship with her classmates. She didn't live in the second-floor dormitories with the other teens; she had a private bedroom with a private bathroom on the third floor, with the live-in adult employees, because the other girls were afraid to room with her. She was a year behind in school, having spent what would have been her senior year wandering more than a thousand miles from Mississippi to Alberta. Her starring role in the Liberty Island drama had set her even further apart from her peers. Rogue was older, not simply in years but in experiences and absorbed memories; older, reserved, cynical, solitary. Getting her attention would be a challenge, but Scott enjoyed a challenge, and he did not feel a shred of guilt. At the culmination of his plan he would get what he wanted and Rogue would get what she wanted, what she _thought_ she wanted, and God help the poor girl, what she thought she wanted was Logan.

Scott felt the adrenaline rush that hit him at the start of any mission. _Showtime_. He picked up his coffee mug and walked over to Rogue's table.

"May I join you?" he asked politely.

Startled, Rogue looked up at him. After a moment she said, "That's a new look."

He shrugged as if he did not understand. Scott normally dressed like a Wall Streeter by day and a prepster after business hours. It was partly an overreaction to being mocked throughout grade school and high school for his inadequate clothing, and partly the result of partnering with a stylish woman. Jean preferred classic Brooks Brothers menswear on Scott, which made her alliance with Logan the Lumberjack extra-boggling.

But in the run-up to his campaign, Scott had devoted several days to acquiring a new-to-him wardrobe at thrift shops in Westchester and New York City. Jeans, plain dark t-shirts – softened, lightened, tightened, worn-looking, as if he'd had them all along in the back of his closet and had just pulled them out again. He had artfully rumpled his hair with some gel, and as a final touch, had not shaved that morning. An unshaven Scott Summers was probably going to cause mansion residents to consult the skies to reassure themselves that the sun had indeed risen in the east that morning.

"May I?" he repeated. He could tell Rogue thought Casual Scott looked hot, even if she was also perplexed and wary at seeing him standing at her table.

Rogue hesitated, shook her head dismissively. "Mr. Summers, I'm not talkin' about Logan with you." Her Mississippi drawl was charming even if her demeanor was not.

"That's good, because I don't want to talk about Logan."

"So what's there to talk about?"

"We have something in common."

"Yeah, I know what we got in common," Rogue said grimly, "and I don't want to talk about it."

"We're the only people in this school who can't control their powers. Until you came here, I was the only one."

Rogue looked taken aback.

Scott pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Tapping his glasses, he said, "I can't turn it off. I have to wear these glasses all the time so I don't kill anyone."

Rogue did not answer. She forked some scrambled eggs into her mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed.

Scott sipped his coffee. "I came here when I was sixteen. Never occurred to me that I was a mutie, because if you're going to turn into a mutie, it happens to you when you're twelve or thirteen, right? The Professor figured I was a gamma. But then I got my powers when I was seventeen." He did not add _Just like you_.

Rogue said nothing. She buttered and began eating a triangle of toast

"I had to tape my eyes shut. Walked around with a white cane and learned how to read Braille. And for six months the Professor told me it was all in my mind and I could fix it if I really tried."

Rogue swallowed the last of her toast. She sat, jaw clenched.

"So for six months I blamed myself. Did the therapy thing with the Professor and took lots of different pills. And then the Professor finally got hold of my medical records from Nebraska Children and Family Services." _Stole them._ "I was in an accident when I was eight. Head injury." Scott rapped his head with his knuckles. "Can't do scans anymore on this head, but there were plenty of scans from before. Damage to the fifth brain lobe and the thirteenth cranial nerve. Except everyone else has four brain lobes and twelve cranial nerves. I guess I'm lucky the doctors didn't off me in the pediatric ward so they could dissect my brain."

Rogue still said nothing.

"Of course the Professor felt terrible. He apologized over and over. I finally stopped being mad at him. He's a child psychiatrist, so of course he thought it was a mental problem, not a physical problem."

Rogue finally spoke. "Dr. Grey says I don't have a physical problem."

"Well, good. That means you can fix it. But until you do, there's two of us."

"Look, Mr. Summers, there's no _us_. I'm not your friend."

"You're not my friend because Logan's told you not to be my friend." Scott shrugged. "I thought you were an independent woman."

"Logan doesn't tell me what to do. I'm not your friend because I don't like you."

"You don't even know me. All you know about me is what Logan tells you." Scott shook his head, as if disappointed in her. "Hating people because Daddy hates them is for children. Do your own research and make your own decision."

He could see the _Daddy_ wisecrack stung. Scott got to his feet. "I'm going into Salem Center. You should come with me. Purely in the name of scientific research, of course."

He glanced around and noted about thirty people now in the dining hall, employees, volunteers and students, most of them staring stupefied at Casual Scott. Among them, Logan. _Excellent._

"I'm goin' into the city with some of the kids from my class."

Scott shrugged again. "You've got more patience than I do. I figure I spend enough time with kids. Sometimes I just want some adult company." He turned away.

"Why are you so anxious to be my buddy?"

Scott half-turned and smiled, what Jean called his lady-killer smile. "Well, I could give you a lot of politically correct reasons, but I might as well admit that I think you're an attractive woman."

He sauntered off to the coffee station to fill a paper cup. He put a lid on it, turned and bounced off Ororo. She was staring at him wide-eyed.

"Scott?"

"Good morning."

"Remember how I said you should dress more casually?"

"Uh huh."

"I was wrong. Go back upstairs and put on a tie. And shave."

Scott laughed. "You're still going into the city tonight, right? I'm going to Salem Center but I'll be back before you leave." Over her shoulder he saw Logan get up and walk to Rogue's table. Logan sat, leaned forward and spoke with evident earnestness.

"Is this your new 'hangin' out at the hardware store' look? Because it's not working."

"What, are you the new queen of hardware store fashion?"

"I don't think it's gonna go over at the tractor supply store, either. Or the auto parts store. Or all the other fun-filled places where you spend your time communing with rednecks."

"Well, I wasn't exactly blending in when I wore a polo shirt and chinos. And oh yeah, the glow-in-the-dark glasses."

"Trust me, you blend in less now."

Scott saw Rogue abruptly stand. She put on her cardigan, jerked on her gloves and strode towards the coffee station. Scott admired the view.

Ororo left off haranguing Scott as Rogue walked up. "Good morning, Rogue."

"Mornin', Miss Munroe." Rogue turned. "Scott." She said _Scott_ , not _Mr. Summers._ "I think I _would_ like some adult company. When are you leavin'?"

Scott smiled down at her. "Meet me in fifteen minutes in the garage."

She nodded and briskly walked out of the dining hall. Scott decided the rear view was just as good.

Ororo gawped at him. She smacked her head. She smacked it again. "Clearly I'm still in bed and dreaming."

"Goodbye, Ro. I'll be back around four."

Ororo caught up with him in the hall. "Scott, hey Scott, wait a sec."

He stopped and glanced inquiringly at her. Ororo looked around, pulled him into what had once been the ladies' drawing room, and closed the door behind them.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, but Rogue is one of my students." Ororo spoke seriously. "I don't think she should be using your first name or hanging out with you in Salem Center. She was supposed to be going into the city with the rest of the kids."

"Rogue is eighteen years old, and if she doesn't want to spend the day with a bunch of kids, that's her prerogative."

"I'm concerned that she's going to be spending the day with _you_. You're a teacher at this school and she's a student, even if she is eighteen. And you're nine years older than she is." Ororo peered up at him in bewilderment. "Scott, why are you acting like this? This isn't like you. Are you just trying to annoy Logan?"

"If I wanted to annoy Logan I'd throw away his cigars. Rogue doesn't mean anything to him."

"What? How can you say that? He saved her life."

"Yes, Ro, he saved her life. We're X-Men, we save people's lives, it's what we do. Logan was just doing his job. He's not contractually obliged to fall in love with every fair maiden he saves. He's not even obliged to like her."

"Well, he does like her. They're friends."

"Let me get this straight. I'm not allowed to be with Rogue because she's Logan's friend, but Logan's allowed to be with Jean because she's my fiancée?"

"You know what, let's just leave Logan out of this. I don't care if Logan gets annoyed or not, but you're getting _me_ annoyed. It's not appropriate for you to socialize with Rogue. She's my student, Scott, and I want you to respect my wishes."

"She's not _my_ student. Rogue is a legal adult and she can legally spend the day hanging out in the hardware store with me."

He turned away from Ororo, opened the drawing room door and strode out and down the hall.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 _It is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities I have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them – Niccolo Machiavelli_

Of course Scott did not take Rogue to the hardware store. He spent a pleasant day meandering with her through Salem Center, a village founded by Dutch settlers in 1650, when New York was still New Netherland. While not as great a tourist magnet as Sleepy Hollow or Tarrytown, Salem Center still drew a respectable number of day-trippers from New York City, particularly in the summer. Rogue was as obviously charmed as any other visitor by the village's cobbled streets, stone buildings and pocket parks, quaint shops and boutique restaurants. The fact that she _was_ charmed was testament to her more developed tastes. Every other student rushed straight through the village to the train station and onward to New York City. Scott and Rogue didn't encounter even one other Institute resident in Salem Center, and Scott wasn't surprised. No one wanted to spend time in boring Salem Center when Manhattan beckoned.

The villagers recognized him, of course, but merely as an employee of the Xavier Institute, not as the person responsible for the Scott Summers Memorial Sunroof in the train station. Fortunately for Scott, the great big gaping hole in the roof of the station had been attributed to a bomb set off by Lehnsherr's people. Erik Lehnsherr had degaussed every security camera system in tiny Salem Center when he kidnapped Rogue from the train station in May, and even eyewitnesses to the battle had been too confused to give useful descriptions of the combatants. However, the Salem Center police were on the lookout for a Caucasian woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes, which, as Ororo said, just went to show how amazingly unobservant people could be.

So while Salem Center's finest would have instantly arrested Dolly Parton, Scott and Rogue strolled unmolested. Scott wasn't surprised that Rogue hadn't spent any time in the village during her residence at the Institute; she only remembered it as the scene of her kidnapping. As she wandered through antique shops and art galleries and admired the picturesque streets, her normal reserve melted; she smiled, exclaimed and pointed like any tourist. Scott felt quietly satisfied to have overwritten at least some of her bad memories.

Scott would not have been male had he not been conscious of the attention his companion was drawing from other men. Months ago Rogue had put aside the Little Red Riding Hood cloak and developed a retro style that flattered but still covered her deadly skin. He was so absorbed in watching Rogue and the people watching her that he was taken by surprise when Rogue nudged him and said playfully, "I'm scared that gal's gonna push me into traffic. She's got her eyes on you."

Scott looked down at her and smiled. She looked carefree, relaxed. "Do you have any idea how many men are looking at you? I'm starting to think I should have brought a shotgun."

He was sorry to see the smile fade from her face. Rogue looked away. Scott didn't need to be a telepath to read her mind: _You don't need a gun for protection when you have killer skin._

He said gently, "Let's get some lunch."

He had put thought into where he would take her for lunch. It was a rustic spot with an arbor in a backyard garden and picnic tables placed widely enough apart that Rogue would not have to fear anyone bumping into her. He picked the farthest table and seated her between the table and the wooden privacy fence, doubly ensuring that no one could brush against her. The day was hot and most customers had chosen to eat indoors in the air conditioning. But it was pleasant in the shade of the arbor, and with evident relief Rogue removed her cardigan, hat and gloves, sighing in satisfaction as the breeze wafted over her bare arms. Scott was pleased to see the smile return to her face as she looked around.

"This is nice," she said. "It's been a nice day. Thank you, Scott."

"I should be thanking you. It's hard to feel sorry for myself when I'm in the company of a beautiful woman."

Rogue looked awkwardly away. The waitress arrived, took their orders for salads and sandwiches, and after the woman had delivered their iced teas, Scott said, "If you don't mind, let's keep it formal when we're in the house. If you could please keep calling me Mr. Summers when other people are around. Technically I'm a teacher and you're a student, even if I'm not your teacher and you're not my student." He added, "I might as well tell you that Miss Munroe isn't happy with me. She didn't want me to take you to Salem Center today."

"Why not?"

"Well, someone complained to her and so she complained to me."

Rogue's mouth tightened in displeasure.

"Apparently someone thinks I'm a scoundrel and your reputation could be ruined forever by the scandal if you were seen in public with me."

"Oh, my God. I'm eighteen and this is the twenty-first century. And you don't look like Bill Clinton to me."

"Well, that's what I said, more or less. But I work with Miss Munroe and I don't want to look like I'm disrespecting her. So the next time we go out, I guess we shouldn't make plans in the dining room in front of other people."

Rogue hesitated. Before she could say anything, if indeed she had been planning to say something, the waitress arrived with their food. After the woman left, Scott said, "I want there to be a next time, Rogue."

She glanced irresolutely at him.

Scott leaned forward. "You know what? I woke up this morning and I decided I was tired of being miserable. Happiness is a decision, Rogue. But a decision doesn't mean anything unless you back it up with action. And that's why I went up to you this morning and talked to you even though I thought you'd slap me down."

Rogue said nothing. Slowly she began to eat her salad. Scott picked up his sandwich.

Suddenly she said, "You're movin' on pretty fast, don't you think?"

Scott chewed, swallowed, and sighed. "I decided back in April to break up with Dr. Grey. A month before you arrived here."

Rogue looked surprised and skeptical. "You two looked pretty tight in May."

"I kept going through the motions because I didn't know how to end it. Dr. Grey is thirty-six and I felt guilty about dumping a woman that old. I knew she'd never find another guy, except maybe some sixty-year-old fart."

Rogue nodded thoughtfully. As he expected, this line of reasoning made perfect sense to her eighteen-year-old mind. No doubt she thought a thirty-six-year-old woman must have one foot in a nursing home and the other foot in the grave.

"And then Logan came along. And I had my honorable out." Scott shrugged. "I hope she can hang onto him. At her age, she doesn't have a lot of options."

Rogue chewed a few more mouthfuls of salad. Suddenly she put down her fork. "Scott, you can't just give up like this," she said, agitated, even desperate. "You and Dr. Grey have been together forever! You were engaged! Why – why are you just giving up? Her and Logan don't belong together."

 _Oh, they do. Two peas in a pod. A couple of commitment-phobes. They don't want love. They don't want marriage. They don't want children._ But if he spelled this out for Rogue, she'd never take the oaf off his hands.

He said instead, "I gave up before he showed up, Rogue. And I agree that Logan could do better." _I can't believe I said that with a straight face._ "I think he got interested in Dr. Grey just because she was involved with me. Some men are like that. A woman just doesn't seem desirable to them unless some other man is paying attention to her." He shrugged again. There, he'd planted the seed; now to see if it took root in her brain.

They finished their meal in silence.

The foot traffic on Main Street had thinned. Only the most determined tourists continued to loiter outdoors in the increasingly oppressive heat. Rogue glanced wistfully at girls walking past in skimpy shorts and tank tops.

Scott said, "I want to show you one more place before we go home."

Without speaking, they walked north on Main Street for several more blocks before Scott made a turn onto a quiet cobblestone street of colonial-era townhouses overhung by a tunnel of old-growth trees. They walked another block and Scott turned again and then again into an alley, if such a term could be used to describe the picturesque passageway. It was lined with small brick buildings covered with climbing ivy and hung with flower boxes.

"This is a mews," he said. "These buildings used to be the stables behind those townhouses. Carriages below and stablemen's quarters above. They've all been renovated and turned into condos. This whole alley is one condo association."

"Oh," Rogue said. She looked about curiously, then stared up at Scott in surprise. "Are you buyin' a condo? Are you movin' out?"

"No, I could never afford to buy one of these. But I can afford to rent one, for a few months." He dug a key out of his pocket, tagged with a house address. "When things started going to hell, I wanted a place where I could get away from... get away." He held out the key to her. "Maybe you feel like that too. This is the spare key. Feel free to use it whenever you need to."

Rogue did not reach for it. Scott took her gloved hand, put the key in her palm and closed her fingers over it.

"You're the only person who knows about this place." He pointed towards a door. "Miss Munroe thinks I'm hanging out at the hardware store, but I'm here, Wednesday and Saturday. I've got it until October first. The lady who owns it is in Europe right now."

Scott turned and began walking back the way he had come. After a moment he heard Rogue walking beside him. He glanced at her. She seemed deep in thought.

When he parked his Jag in the mansion's garage, after a completely silent ride from Salem Center, Rogue finally spoke, but only to utter a polite inanity "It was a nice day. Thank you."

"I want another nice day."

She opened the car door and glanced back at him over her shoulder. "What if I did slap you down at breakfast? What would you have done"

He smiled cockily. "Reconstitute and reengage. One skirmish does not decide the battle or the war."

A smile cracked her somber expression. "Scott, only you could make bein' happy sound like World War Two." And she got out of the car and walked inside the house.


End file.
